


Eventide Dawning

by valiantprincex



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sawicki Saturday!, just a lil pupok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantprincex/pseuds/valiantprincex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Featuring: Tony. Helena. Angelbros. </p><p>Tattoo/Flowershop AU meets Urban Fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to updatepls for betaing this with me!!
> 
>  ~~Im gonna try and update once a week on WEDNESDAY~~  
>  im in the last 5 weeks of school rn and it's CRUNCH TIME i won't have time to write until summer break... BUT ONCE IT STARTS, this fic will rise again.

Tony doesn't know when the tattoo parlor opened. He remembers a certain emptiness in the lot next to his, a specific kind of solitude resting in that empty space. Then it was just... there. A blink-and-you'll miss it moment: one day the lot is empty, the next there is a steady stream of customers filling in-and-out of a long, low building.

Not like they're bothering him. Or taking his customers. Now  _that_ he'd have an issue with, someone moving in on his charmed bouquets but no, this is fine.

But. Weird.

Every time he feels a chill in the air he shakes his head, remembers that he didn't make an offering that fall, goes back to tending his flowers. Some days when he places a particularly powerful spell he feels a shift in the air, like the quick snap of turning heads. The next morning he checks the salt lining his doorstep, makes sure to mutter a quick protection before opening. Just in case.

The parlor’s presence itches at him; sometimes he sees flashes of a face – the same face – but then it’s gone, and he’s not sure if it was real or not. He sees witches leave with crows fluttering along their collarbones; shifters with ink that changes faster than they do; warlocks with spells flickering up their arms.

He can't really worry about it though, his flowers get testy when he's not around, turn into vines likely to wrap around someone's throat. (It's only ever  _actually_  happened once, took him three hours to coax the vine out of strangling the poor sap trying to buy it. He kept the young ones in the back after that, the legal problems were just a tad too much to handle.) They would never hurt  _him_ , only wind playfully around his arms when he falls asleep, tangle together right before he’s about to make a sale. The young ones are his favorite, though, they sway to his songs, come slowly out of their seeds at his command. Stretch across the greenhouse floor in attempt at tripping him.

“Who owns it?” He asks, once, but his customer simply blinks and shrugs, every movement slow. It’s a doozy – Tony’s pretty good at getting rid of curses, has to be with this job – and by the time he sends the customer off he’s still only moving at half speed. Tony hails a cab for him, rests the simply outrageous bouquet in the passengers seat next to him. Before he lets the cab go he mutters a few more Luck charms. Hopefully the man’s husband would lift the curse soon, else he would be bound to a life of half speed.

No, Tony’s too busy braiding wreaths and charming bouquets, advising yet another foolish lover how to fix their past misdeeds.

 

* * *

 

He never sees the parlor's owner, maybe they live in there. It doesn’t really look big enough to live in – what with all the business flowing in and out – but space was changeable, you just had to get the right witch on your side.

_Curiosity killed the cat_ , Tony chides himself each time he looks at the parlor, but each time it gets more and more alluring, it’s dark doors tempting him.

He counts three months after noticing its presence before he walks up to the tattoo parlor's door.  _Three's a good number,_  he assures himself,  _a safe number._  Lucky too, or so they say.

He props up a  _CLOSED_ sign in his window before sealing it, whistling a spell. (It should keep his plants quiet for a while, the  _last_  time he left them without it he came back to a war zone –  a young daffodil had decided it really, really didn't like the bunch of tulips next to it, and of  _course_ then alliances were tested, formed, broken. Tony had to close shop for two weeks after that to fix everything up again.)

The door is dark, as always, and warm to the touch. His hand pauses on the handle and he snaps his fingers, the rose bug in his front pocket blossoming. It winds its way around his forearm before settling in the crook of his elbow, pulsing slightly.

"Now or never, right," He looks at the rose, which sways gently. 

He murmurs a protection three times before opening the door, his hand shivering against the handle. As soon as he steps inside, the light changes. The air shifts, a warm breeze coming from his left. Soft music plays in the background.   
  
"Hello?"

He steps quickly through the parlor, gazing at the art on the walls. It’s intricate, flowing patterns and harsh lines, delicate flowers placed next to hungry dragons.

“Hey, it looks like you!” He jokes, tapping on one of the roses. The flower on his arm tightens, changing from red to purple.

“I know right? Pretty cool.”

He steps back from the walls and takes in the room: it’s smaller than expected, there’s a witch sitting in the corner reading what looks to be a comic book, but other than Tony and him the room is empty. Waiting room, Tony decides. He hears a sharp  _tsk tsk_ as the witch looks up at Tony, a frown creasing his face.

“Sorry!” Tony says, his rose had spread off his arm and had begun to tangle around the witch’s ankles. He snaps his fingers and the rose flutters its petals, changes from green to black to green again before shrinking back into his pocket. He looks around once more.

The desk up front is empty, and so Tony makes his way slowly down the hallway leading off of the waiting room. When he rounds a corner the first thing he sees is a mane of yellow hair. He frowns, focusing closer until he sees the woman underneath: she's bent over the thigh of... is that a minotaur? or simply a very tall faun... Tony can't really tell. He coughs. 

No reaction. He wonders for a moment if she's put up a barrier, some kind of anti-distraction spell. Wouldn't be the first time he's seen one and--  
  
"It is rude to interrupt someone's work."  
  
Tony starts, jumping at the sound. "Err, sorry." He backtracks. "I was just coming in to say hello, I run the shop next door – should I wait? Or..."  
  
“I am working now,” she says slowly. Tony can hear the soft hum of the machine she holds between her fingers. “You can wait, yes?”

“Yeah, okay.” He backs out of the room, “I’m just gonna be in the waiting room, that okay?”

“Yes,” she says, still not looking at him. As he leaves he hears her start to sing, a soft sound that sends chills through his spine.

The clock says it's been a half hour when the faun – minotaur, definitely minotaur – walks out of the parlor, limping only slightly.

The woman follows a few minutes later, peeling off her gloves with a snap. She nods at the witch, holding up one finger:  _Wait_.

“You are?” She asks Tony.

“I work next door,” Tony points toward the general direction of his shop. “Wanted to come say hi.” When she says nothing, Tony rummages around in his pockets, emerging with a crumpled business card. “If you ever want to stop by, first time is discounted ten percent.”

The woman takes the card carefully. When it touches her fingers the smooth lines begin shifting, the letters loosening from their anchors. “Thank you,” she says.

“I’m Tony,” he offers his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Helena,” she – Helena – responds, her teeth catching on the last syllable.

Tony waits for her to say more, but Helena had already motioned for the witch to stand and follow her to the back. “See you around?” Tony offers weakly, “Maybe get a drink?”

Helena turns. “Drinks,” she muses. “Yes, tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure. Across the street? They have some amazing drinks there, that guy’s spells are no joke.”

“Yes,” Helena calls over her shoulder, leading the witch into her workroom.

“See you there!” Tony calls after her, shaking his head. He looks at the clock. He’s been gone for an hour, not bad considering he initially wasn't sure he’d get out of here alive.

When he pushes the door open the sunlight is scorching hot, the star pulled too close. Tony hisses and throws an arm over his eyes, waiting for the burst of light to subside. Someone must’ve dumped their offering into the pit too early, again. That or someone was fucking around with the order of the stars.  _Kids_.

He saunters back to his shop, pleased to see two people already standing out front. One looks to have suffered a particularly nasty jinx – something altering sense of direction, Tony speculates – the poor girl seems to unable to tell the difference between the ground and the sky. She holds desperately onto the door handle while to other customer stands apart from her, dressed to the nines and tapping eir watch face.

Tony grins, cracks his knuckles, and approaches them. He opens the door easily and holds an arm out to the stumbling girl, nodding at the impatient figure. He coaxes a chair from a friendly bunch of lilies, letting the girl rest on them before stepping away.

“So, what can I help you with today?” Tony asks. He snaps his fingers and his rose blooms to life, stretching up to coil on his shoulders. “We have everything, feel free to look around! I also offer custom charms and the like, just come up when you’re ready.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: where Tony and Helena get drinks and wear flower crowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: alcohol use, overeating, animal death(? kind of)

Tony’s never seen someone eat so much. The bar is loud and noisy and hot, and Helena won’t take off her jacket. Tony had shed his the moment they walked in, his flowers wilting slightly with the heat.

“You have flowers in your hair.”

“ _Hell_  yeah.” Tony grins. He points to the tulip by his ear and it flashes a bright shade of cobalt before returning to its usual red-and-pink pulse.

They’re crammed into the last booth, the bar already almost full by the time they showed up. Tony had forgotten that today was when the local warlock factions had challenged each other to a game of pool, and the bar was busy.

Sammy has already had to expand the size once, muttering curses as he sends a goose up in flames. “Help me out here?” He hollers into the fire, and his god obliges. Tony doesn't want to mention that a witch could have done it free of charge – Sammy doesn't trust the  _anyone_ but the gods with his bar.

By the pool table the factions had already accused each other of cheating, and Sammy is up to his neck trying to keep a brawl from breaking out.

“Are you?” Helena gestures to the remnants of Tony's meal.

“Nah I'm good.”

He watches in fascination as she devours his food, and with her hunched posture he can’t help but think of a vulture crouching over carrion. He waves his hand, motioning for the waiter to come closer. Tony’s never seen xem before but the staff here are always changing faces, so he doesn't mind. “Two drinks.”

“Preference?” The waiter purrs, eyes flickering in a cycle of color.

“Regular alcohol for me, and,” he looks at Helena. “What do you want?”

Helena shrugs, still immersed in her food.

“Two regulars.”

“No charm? Spell?”

“Maybe later.”

The waiter sweeps off, disappearing behind the bar. “We should try Sammy’s charms later, they’re good stuff.”

“Who is he?” Helena asks through a mouthful of meat.

“That guy,” Tony points to where Sammy was wedged between a very angry pair of warlocks. “He’s good.”

“For a human,” Helena says, turning her attention back to her food.

“True,” Tony concedes, “but the we don’t know alcohol like  _they_ do.”

Helena leans back, frowning at her now empty plate. Tony raises his eyebrows but she says nothing, head turning to scan the room. The waiter returns with their drinks – Tony’s only half sure its the same one as before – and he raises his glass to her.

She takes a gulp, grins, and Tony feels a flash of fear as he sees the glint of fangs. She tips the glass back, slamming it down – empty – on the table, a laugh ripping from her throat.

“Another?” Tony is already flagging the waiter down. Helena nods eagerly, hands tight on the edge of the table. Tony can’t help but laugh with her, the waiter looking at them both with raised eyebrows.

“Another!” Helena crows, sending the waiter off with a flourish.

The lilac weaving behind her ear sprouts another flower, and Tony can’t remember when he gave it to her but it’s stretching over her brow and he whistles a tune, shaping it faster, brighter. Helena barks a laugh as the flowers in her hair flash with bio-luminescence, multiply until her head is wreathed in them.

"My," she burps, forms a word that sounds to him like hurting. "Would like these."

It takes Tony a moment to process, he's nursing his third drink and his head is delightfully muddled. "Who?"

She frowns, pulls the word from her lips like it's foreign to her. "Sister."

“Are you close?” Tony asks, immediately regretting his words. Helena recoils, picks up the jar of salt on the table and begins pouring it in her drink. “You don’t have to answer that,” he says quickly, watching as she empties the entire jar. She raises it to her lips before he shoots out a hand, grabbing the cup before she can drink any. “That much salt and you’ll die, Helena.”

She pulls a face, setting the cup down. “I did not realize it was not–”

Tony reaches over the the next booth and grabs their entire cup of sugar packets, offering them out to Helena. “I think these were what you were going for?” He shakes his head. He’d have to tell Sammy about that, remind him to keep the salt away. Or at least label it. Tony forgets, often, that this is usually an all  _human_ bar during the daylight hours.

She takes the box with scrambling fingers, and he motions for the waiter to bring her another drink. By this time he’s sure there are at least two of them, shapeshifters probably, their eyes changing shape and color with every blink. Tony shivers; he’s heard that they forget what they look like, sometimes, change all the time because they don't remember what to go back to.

He’s wanted to change his body before but the thought of  _forgetting_ always stopped him. Better to find the right witch to change it for you. That, or the human doctors. (But even those came with risks,  _humans_ with their buildings of iron, doors shut with circles of steel instead of salt lines and protection.)

He’s brought back to the present when Helena pounds the table, sets her elbow and cocks her wrist toward him. He grins, meets her challenge.

* * *

 

Tony isn’t sure how many drinks he’s had, or – oops – how he’s going to pay for them. The bar could use some decorating though, he makes a mental note to send some goodwill flowers in the morning. Also, his arm hurts. His wrist hits the table again and Helena raises her fists in celebration.

“Non-dominant hand this time,” Tony protests, massaging his right. He sets his left elbow in the table and grins. “Fair?”

This time he can hear his wrist crack, letting out a hiss of pain as it hits the table. “You’re left handed,” he says, shaking his head. “Shoulda known.” He beckons a rather irritated looking warlock over to their table. “Wanna have a go? I’m spent.”

His rose winds its way out of his pocket to form a splint over his wrist, and when it tightens a bit too much Tony protests. “C'mon, it was fun!”

The rose blooms in his direction, its petals shivering. “Fine.” He concedes. “I’ll take it easy next time okay?”

A sudden roar interrupts his thoughts: a crowd has formed around Helena, who had migrated to the bar. A line begins to form, each challenger more determined than the last; each one’s wrist cracking against the bar’s wood surface.

And Helena still won’t take her jacket off.

* * *

 

“ENOUGH!” Sammy bellows, just after the fifth pool table is set on fire. He storms back behind the bar, emerging with three loaves of bread and a single potato. He throws them into the fire with a roar and the next second the bar is gone. Tony falls onto the ground, the seat underneath him no longer there.

Helena stumbles upright, her flower wreath still blinking in the night. She leaves the warlocks in a confused heap, stepping through the confused crowd. She reaches out a hand to help Tony to his feet, and they stumble together across the street.

Helena stops in front of her parlor. shoving her hands into her pockets.

“You can keep them, if you want,” Tony gestures to her head. She pauses by the door, reaches one hand to trace the flowers threaded in her hair. “Here, wait a sec and I’ll charm ‘em permanently.”

Tony whistles, bringing his hands up to rest on each side of her head. He hums softly, noticing how still Helena has become. The air sparks with energy, heating around his fingers. Tony makes sure to add a couple of Luck wishes too, those always wear off sooner than the rest but it couldn't hurt.

“All done,” he proclaims, stepping away. “Should last a long time, but I can refresh ‘em if something stops working.”

Helena nods and moves to enter her shop, but before she disappears she turns, locking eyes with Tony. “We should do that. Again. Sometime.”

“Yeah! You know where to find me.”

She nods, lets the door swing closed behind her. Tony rocks back on his heels, letting out a long breath. His wrist still needs tending, and Sammy deserves some reparative flowers. “Fun night, yeah?”

The rose encircling his wrist doesn't move, flashes dark purple before returning to its normal shade.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

The tulip by his ear starts winding down his shoulder. The rose flutters its petals a bit.

“Time for  _you_ to go to bed.” The daffodils threaded through his hair tighten. He sighs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Tony walks over to his shop, its quiet darkness a stark contrast to the bar. He tosses his still twinkling flower crown into a nearby bucket before checking in on the greenhouse out back, humming a few bars of his favorite lullaby to some of the more restless sleepers.

“Night,” he whispers as he exits, seals the door with a snap of his fingers. When he looks up, the bar is back, a very large  _CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE_ sign propped up in front of the door. He looks back at Helena’s shop – it’s dark, does she live there? – before rounding the corner and hopping on his motorcycle.

The key jams slightly in the ignition but soon it’s humming, something  _more_ than gasoline pumping through its metal veins. He revs the motor, peals out onto the street. He accelerates, and soon the bike is barely touching the concrete. He shouts an incantation and then it’s flying, careening through the air in an unsteady arc.

Tony steadies its path, aiming north. He grits his teeth at the wind and wishes he brought a jacket, or that he could do a warmth charm or something. But that isn’t his  _thing_ , so he braces himself against the cold and aims for home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is flying, and falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: alcohol use, reference to injury

The second time Helena mentions her sister she's lying on Tony's couch, murmuring names in her sleep.

"Sarah."

She says it with such simplicity, such careful power that Tony almost thinks it's an enchantment. She says  _that word_ again, – or what Tony can only assume is a word, can only assume means  _sister_  – a sound that grates on the back of his mind. A sound that whispers of past, of something  _before_.

Not that he'd ever ask her.  _Everyone_  had secrets, it’s not his job to pry, not with his own skeletons locked up tight in a closet he pretends doesn't exist.

She says the name again, “ _Sarah_ ,” in a hoarse voice that Tony imagines is a scream.

"Hey," he nudges her. "You okay?"

Helena’s eyes open and for a second Tony is hypnotized, a magnetic pull that’s gone as soon as she blinks.  She shakes herself, shrugs. "It was nothing." At his concerned frown she continues. "Don't worry, it's only dreams."

"Dreams have power."

Helena shrugs, doesn’t respond.

“Who’s Sarah?”

“My,” she pauses, savors the word:  _mine_. “Sister. My  _sister_.”

Helena makes a face. She looks around his apartment, her eyes settling in the case of beer in the corner. Tony tracks her line of sight, beckoning a bottle over with one crooked finger. She accepts it silently, taking the cap off with her teeth.

Tony thinks he can see the swirling edge of a pattern dancing on her wrist but she pulls her sleeve lower, not looking at him. In her hand, the beer's label has become unrecognizable, each letter twisting and turning with unsteady lines.

"That's cool as hell," he says.

"You should not say that," Helena chides, and Tony thinks he can hear a growl in her voice, a guttural quality that seeps from the base of her throat.

"Still." He focuses on his own bottle, but can only manage to get the last letter to tip sideways, falling rather undramatically to the bottom of the label. "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

She points to his shirt pocket, where his rose is peeking out ever so slightly. "Where did you learn that?"

"Good point, good point."

They drink in silence.

"How does it feel?"

"What?" Tony looks up.

Helena gestures to his motorcycle, which is parked just outside his window. "Flying."

Tony breaks out into a grin. " _Amazing_. Wanna try?"

He doesn't need an answer. The light in Helena's eyes is enough.

* * *

 

"Okay so it's just like a regular motorcycle, just be careful when it gets off the ground!"

"Do not worry, I know how to ride." Helena's grin is infectious, and Tony can't help but feel her excitement. At her touch the red-and-yellow flames drawn onto the bike start flickering, twisting on the shiny black metal.

"That's unconscious, isn't it?"

Helena doesn't respond, the engine is already humming and she leans close to the handlebars, whispers something Tony can't even begin to understand. She pulls out onto the empty street, fingers poised on the handlebars.

"Just don't break her, last time I crashed it took me a month to find someone who could fix the enchantment."

"Do not worry," Helena says again, her finger twitching. "I have ridden before, just not," she purses her lips as of the word had been stolen from her. "Like this," she finishes. And in instant she's gone, zooming down the road at full speed.

"Well, shit," Tony says to no one but himself, watching her rise into the air. She comes 'round quick as a whip, hurtling through the air with a recklessness that makes Tony itch. Like she's not afraid of falling.

She shouts something at him, some wordless scream of joy that mingles with the rush of the wind. She soars up and up, dips down low over Tony's house before circling again.

He shields his eyes from the sun as he watches her soar, pushes down the uneasiness building in his stomach.

But he's right to be uneasy, on her seventh lap she lifts her hands off the handlebars, leans back, falls. For one slow second Tony sees her frozen, fearless, exuberant in her flight. And then she: falls. She hits the ground and he hears it shudder under the force of her, hears the crash of his motorcycle in the distance.

He couldn't care less about the bike.

* * *

 

It's  _weeks_  before Tony sees her again, after that;  _weeks_  after she picked herself up, smoldering, left him alone with twisted wreckage.

"What  _are_  you," he had asked to nothing, the only reply the hiss of some faraway wind.

Tony can’t stop and worry though, he’s busy, too busy, the days are longer now and so is the line out his door; shouting shades weaving in and out of the corporeal mass. He puts up some poppies outside his door too keep them at bay,  _he_  doesn’t mind their chatter but his flowers didn’t like the presence, whenever one is around they shrivel, loose petals. And that won’t do, especially with business being better than ever.

With the onset of summer he extends his hours, opening at dawn and closing his doors at dusk. That  _is_ supposed to be a Lucky thing, after all. Respect all that.

Days pass without her and Tony feels an unfamiliar emptiness clawing at the back of his head. It’s ridiculous, a day was nothing, just a blink really, he assures himself. When a week passes, he begins to worry. Then two weeks, then three.

The tattoo parlor remains busy, a steady stream of customers in-and-out, but no Helena. He can still feel the pulse and thrum of her spells on those who leave (they’re too potent to be from anyone else) but something stops him from asking, stops him from walking up to her door.

Maybe it’s that she walked away from the wreckage without a limp, shaking off the fall like it was nothing. Or maybe it’s the way she looked at him as she left, one shivering glance, the way her shoulders curved inward, the way they seemed to say shame, shame,  _shame_. Or, maybe, it’s the way she fell, arms reaching, no fear. Like she wasn’t expecting it. Like  _forgetting_.

When Tony does see her again it’s unexpected. He’s just finished sending a whole convoy of floral arrangements to some vamp in the north when he rounds a corner and sees her.

Helena’s the same as ever, still in her green parka despite the summer heat. She’s just outside, giving him a cheery wave from astride a bright purple motorcycle. She grins when he waves, beckons him outside to meet her.

“Long time no see.” Tony looks her up and down, notes the sameness about her.

“I brought you a new one.” Helena taps the side of the motorcycle, sends the colors swirling.

Tony doesn’t know what to say, for a while. He just stares at her, eyes flicking from her to the bike to her store and back-again.

“Do you want to get a drink,” Helena asks, slowly.

 _How did you survive,_  Tony's mind screeches,  _how did you fall and stand and walk away like that._  “Why not,” he sighs, flipping his sign to  _CLOSED_. “But this time you’re paying.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an actual plot may be hinted at, and someone comes home covered in blood. And also drinks. Always drinks.
> 
> warnings: blood, alcohol use, scorpion reference

It’s dark by the time Tony walks into his apartment, and something is  _wrong_. He feels sick, suddenly, races back to his door and feels his protection gone. He grabs the nearest heavy object – a solid iron doorstop that burns at his fingertips – and steps carefully through the house, jumping at every sound.

Someone  _broke his protection_ . That wasn’t supposed to happen, shouldn't be  _able_  to happen. The walls of his house crackle with energy that makes the hair on his arms stand on end. His foot slides on the floor and when he leans down to touch a hand to it the floor is slippery; when he brings his fingers toward his face they’re wet with blood. Tony hears a creak as he approaches his living room and he hefts the doorstop higher. With a yell, he rounds the corner, flicking on the lights with his left hand.

The doorstop hits the ground with a thud, a force pushing Tony’s hand to the ground. The first thing he sees it red, the color bringing out some old instinct buried in his veins. He back away, hissing as he trips over the iron doorstop.

It’s Helena. She huddles on his couch, eyes wide, staring. And she’s soaked in blood.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit.”

Helena looks at him, motioning with one hand toward the light. The switch bends at her will, Tony’s living room again sunk into darkness.

He edges forward slowly, his rose winding it’s way out of his pocket, glowing faintly. The soft light sends flickering shadows across the walls, washes everything in blue light. “Helena,” he says, carefully, “what–”

“Shhh,” she whispers, holding a finger up to her lips. “I did not know where else to go, I–”

“Hey it’s fine, you can stay, just–”

“Not mine.” She gestures to the blood, which shines black in the low light. “It’s not mine.”

Tony doesn’t know if he should be assured by this. “Okay. Okay.” He walks to his room, rummaging around and pulling out a clean set of clothes. He returns to the living room and drapes them over the edge of the couch, just out of Helena's reach. “The bathroom is down the hall and to your left, if you wanna, uh, clean up.”

Helena nods, shifting to her feet and padding down the hall. Tony hears the water start and he sinks down onto the couch, surveying the damage.

 _Helena broke his protection._ The thought gnaws at him, sends shivers up and down his spine. That isn’t possible. Isn’t  _supposed to be_ possible. He shakes himself, looks back at the mess on his couch. It’s not  _that_  bad, the blood probably won’t stain and his protections won’t be  _that hard_ to restore. Tony pushes away his worry and sets to work on the floor, managing to get most of the blood off.  He starts on the couch, trying not to gag at the stench of blood.

He’s halfway done with it when he realizes the water isn't running anymore and that he doesn’t know how long it’s been. He wipes off his hands and steps carefully down the hall, tapping on the bathroom door.

“You okay?”

No response.

“Hey, Helena?” Tonyknocks again, the door opening at his touch. “Hey,” he says again, peering inside, “just wondering if you’re oka–”

He stops, words catching in his throat.

Helena’s back is a mess of lines, old scars interrupted by sharp black streaks of ink. She’s bent over the sink, the room a mess of water and blood. For a second – an eternity –  he can’t move, transfixed by the way the ink lines shift, ever changing patterns distorting the shape of the scars below them. He sees the twitch of a tail wind around her abdomen, the tip of a stinger glinting in the light. It’s followed by a thick, shiny body propped up by six jointed legs; it seems to stare at Tony, tail arching forward. He shivers and has to remind himself that it’s only ink on skin, confined to the boundaries of flesh. Its eyes seem to blink at him, taunting.

It twitches: a quick, violent movement and Helena tenses in response. When she grips the sink he hears the sharp crack of breaking porcelain, the air crackling to life around her.    

Tony backs out quickly, closing the door with a careful push. In the darkness of the hallway he leans up against the wall, stares at the light seeping out from under the door. He realizes that he’s shaking.

After a while he shakes himself, pushes off the wall and returns to his task. Soon the couch is clean of blood, his floors shining, clean.

When Helena finally emerges Tony nods at her, hands her a blanket and points to the couch. “You can stay, if you like.”

Helena takes the blanket, sinking down onto the couch. As Tony turns to leave he stops by the doorway, words,  _confessions_  resting on his tongue.

“Goodnight,” she calls after him.

“Yeah,” he stammers, “goodnight.”

* * *

 

The next morning he walks downstairs to find her sitting at his kitchen table with three empty boxes of cereal. He gives her a bleary wave before he rummages through his cabinets, finally emerging with a carton of eggs. He’s just cracked one into the frying pan when she speaks.

“You are late for work.”

“What?” He freezes, one hand still holding empty shells.

“Work. You are late.”

“Oh,” Tony tries to hide his sigh of relief. “I mean, so are you.”

“True,” Helena concedes.

Tony eats his eggs in silence, casting Helena quick glances. When he’s done he stands, looks at her. “Do you wanna ride with me or get there on your own?”

Helena shrugs. “I will get there.” She tugs at the cuff of her – his – shirt and Tony can just see the tip of a stinger twitching along her wrist. “Also, you have customers waiting.”

He remembers the creature’s blinking eyes and shivers.

* * *

 

Tony doesn’t see Helena arrive but he feels it, a great shift in his bones, the grinding crack of tectonic plates. He’s in the middle of a transaction when he feels the floor shake/ With a yell he drops the bouquets he’s holding (completely ruining the spells). The Were trying to buy them looks at him strangely, unaffected by the shift, jumping back as the flowers scatter all over the floor.

Tony scrambles to his feet and picks up the flowers sheepishly, prepares a new batch free of charge. All day after that Tony’s eyes are drawn to Helena’s parlor; the energy is hot, pulsing, barely contained. The few customers he does see leave with brilliant colors flashing on their skin and he winces, watches them stumble as the new creations spring to life, angry.

The creature’s glittering eyes still seem to bore into him, even this far away, even through two closed doors, two sets of protection. After the fifth hour he shakes his head and closes shop for the day, makes his way across the street to grab a drink.

“Strongest you have,” he nods to Sammy who’s wiping down the bar.

“Still early.”

“Yeah. Strongest you have.”

Tony watches Sammy brew his drink, watches his human hands run down old spellbooks, hears his human mouth mutter incantations. They’re garbled, a mess of mispronunciation but it gets the job done and Tony accepts the cup gratefully. (The one time he tried to brew his own he ended up with a destroyed kitchen and green flames that simply refused to go out for several weeks afterward.)

“Anything wrong?” Sammy looks over, a concerned expression on his face.

He shakes his head, motioning Sammy to continue wiping down the bar. Tony stares into his cup, clenches his hand tighter around it as he feels Helena work another spell.  _Creation_.

Which isn’t supposed to be a  _thing_. He remembers creating creatures out of vines and twigs as a child but this was… more. The way those eyes had stared at him last night betrayed sentience, something that isn’t supposed to be possible to create.

Well.  _Supposed to_ seems to be the key phrase, he decides, finishing his drink. He shouldn’t pry.

The bar’s door dings and Tony looks up, almost unsurprised to see Helena standing nervously in the doorway. He sighs and taps the seat next to him. Helena approaches slowly, sits next to him and sucks her bottom lip between two teeth.

He’s the first to break the silence.

“Hey.”

She nods, not looking at him.

“Hey are you okay?” He turns to her, frowning.

Helena looks at him quickly before looking down again. chewing her lip. “I am just… sorry for last night. For your couch.” Helena looks at the ceiling. “He doesn't like you,” she says dreamily, hands gripping the bar stool.

“Who?”

Helena cocks her head at him, letting one hand drift to her stomach. “But that is okay. I like you.” She snaps her head up, waving at Sammy. He grunts, begins work on her order. (It’s always the same, unless Tony’s ordering them shots: one of everything.  _Everything_. Tony almost feels sorry for Sammy but Helena pays out of her pocket every time, so it isn't really something to complain about.)

“How was your day,” she asks him, the air around her stilling, the energy depleted to normal.

“It was fine, the usual.” He pauses, wonders if he should press farther.  _Some secrets are meant to stay hidden_ , he thinks finally. Tony grins. “I got a new crop of marigolds going though, new seeds. They’ll probably be more receptive to spells.”

“That is good.” Helena traces a finger along her brow and Tony’s flower crown materializes; at first it’s only bits and pieces but they soon form into a seamless wreath, still as vibrant as the day they were enchanted.

Tony doesn’t bother to ask how, raising his hand to order another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering: yes, Helena has a scorpion tattoo’d on her abdomen. His name is Pupok. He doesn’t stay there, ofc, but that’s like his home base.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are bar fights, stars, and wildflowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood, physical violence

The guy’s three times bigger than Helena and when he punches the bar it cracks under his fist.

“You wanna go?” He growls at her, cracking his knuckles.

“Hey!” Tony yells in his direction, raising his own fists in challenge. The guy – must be an ogre, Tony decides – is hunched under the low arch of the bar, dusing splinters off his hand. Tony moves forward, his rose blossoming; encircling his fists and sprouting dark, jagged thorns.

“Sit down,” Helena chides him, pushing Tony back onto the bench. He can see her hand clenching-unclenching under the cuff of her jacket, the tip of a stinger emerging from under her shirt collar.

The guy looks at her and laughs, a deep booming sound of contempt. He sways on his feet, the movement betraying the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. Helena squints up at him and spits, teeth pulling on her bottom lip as she breaks out into a grin.

“Okay, okay,” Sammy pushes in. “Can you take it outside? My bar’s already a mess and if the–”

He’s interrupted by the ogre launching the first punch; it nails Helena square in the jaw and she falls backward, hitting the floor with a thump. Tony surges forward with a yell but before he can land a hit Helena’s grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hefted him backwards, out of the fray. The ogre lets out a drunken shout before charging, both arms raised to strike.

And then he’s on the floor, scattering barstools as Helena bears over him; and then the window shatters and Tony can see Helena slam his head into the pavement, over and over and over and over and–

“Shit,” Tony dashes out the bar, jumping over the shattered glass littering the floor. “Helena,  _Helena_!”

He barrels over to them, Helena and the ogre and red, red, red. Tony’s shoulder rams into Helena and he knocks her over, shoving her to the ground. She lunges at him,  _past him_  and he reaches out blindly, seizes the edge of her parka and pulls. He hears a rip as the fabric gives way but he puts himself in front of Helena, holding up his hands to stop her.

In the background he can hear shouts from the bar, a crowd pouring out to gather around them. Sammy runs forward and Tony can already tell he’s pissed – not like he doesn't have a right to be – so he grabs Helena by the arm and pulls her away. She comes this time, only vague hesitation as he pulls her past the groaning figure on the ground.

“Shit, Helena, what–” Tony stops, shakes his head, continues to drag her away from the commotion. He can hear Sammy yelling for a medic and is relieved when a spindly looking warlock pushes forward, kneels over the ogre’s body and begins murmuring spells.

Sammy shoots him a look and Tony nods, manages to get Helena across the street. They stop in from of his shop and Tony pulls up a bench to deposit Helena onto.

“Sorry I ripped you jacket.” Tony slumps down next to her, clenching his hands in front of him to try and stop the shaking.

“Don’t worry. I can fix it.” Helena pulls on the ripped part and Tony can just see the flash of colors underneath, ink spiraling in unfathomable configurations on her skin. She presses the fraying edges together and hums a spell, the cloth slowly knitting itself back together.

The commotion across the street is dying down, the crows dispersing. Sammy once again props up a  _CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE_ sign in front of his closed door, and Tony chuckles imagining the arguments Sammy's going to have with his god.

“Let's get out of here.”

“I don't want to run away.” Helena fidgets with her jacket cuff and Tony immediately feels bad.

“Not  _forever_ , Helena.” Tony corrects and walks over to his motorcycle. “Just for a day or so. What do ya say?”

* * *

 

The wind lashes at Tony’s arms as he clenches the handlebars, steering carefully through the air. Helena’s arms are firm around his ribcage and he keeps having to convince himself that she isn't going to crush his ribs. Not like she’d do that. Right?

Tony grits his teeth and speeds up, letting the landscape whip by beneath them. A few kids look up at them as they fly past but for the most part, at this time of day, no one notices their flight. The sun’s too bright above them and soon they pass over a forest, their shadow skimming the treetops. Tony’s eyes scan the landscape below, looking for their destination. He finally spots it, circling the area twice before settling down on the hillside.

His motorcycle lands in a big patch of flowers and Tony winces slightly, thinks  _Sorry_ in the back of his brain. He steps off into the patch of flowers and instantly they’re wrapping around and up his legs.

He takes a few steps and waves for Helena to join him. She gets off the motorcycle gingerly, as if she half expects the flowers to attack her.

“They don’t bite,” Tony says, brushing off a particularly affectionate daffodil. He hums a tune and the flowers by Helena’s legs start swaying to his rhythm

Soon Helena is crouched on the ground, allowing the gentle wildflowers to curl up her legs. Tony guides them into flowing configurations, sends bright shockwaves of color shivering through the field. A her behest Tony clears a space; he grinds it down to smooth dirt, scatters the flowers elsewhere.

Helena scrawls figures in the dirt and hums a tune, some wordless melody that  nudging them to life. Tony watches, fascinated, as the stick figures shiver, begin to chase each other around the patch of dirt.

“Amazing.”

Helena shrugs. She taps on the dirt again and the figures freeze, once again simply scratches on the ground.

“Aw, come on,” Tony protests. “That’s friggin awesome.”

As the sun sinks lower in the sky Tony sheds his jacket, sitting crosslegged on the grass. He weaves flowers through his fingers and coaxes them bigger, stronger. With his song he winds the stems together, growing them thicker, stronker, taller. He morphs the flowers, melds them together as one.

As the last bit of sunlight vanishes below the horizon Tony stands, dusts off his hands to survey the tree now sprouting out of the hillside, it’s branches stretching to the sky.  Different colored flowers dot its branches, pulsing with ever changing swirls of color.

“That'll do it,” he says, stepping back to gaze up at it. He turns to Helena, “I can make things too, ya know.”

She presses her hands against the trunk and laughs.

* * *

 

“How’d you get so…” Tony pauses. “You.”

“What do you mean?” Helena asks, running her fingers through the grass. Up above the sky is alight with a wash of stars, a billion twinkling lights stretching from horizon to horizon.

“Like the guy you beat up today? How’d you do that. He punched you square in the jaw and then you threw him out a window.”

“I don't know.” Helena shrugs.

“No way,” Tony presses. “Everyone has a past.”

“I was...” Helena stops, as if she has forgotten something.

“Hey it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” Tony mentally punches himself, “Everyone’s got secrets, sorry.” He sighs, biting his lip.

“My sister used to say…” Helena pauses, forms her words carefully, reverently. “She used to say  _some things should stay hidden_. She said secrets had power.”

“That they do,” Tony agrees. Different power though: a held secret or a whispered one, a broken promise or a careless slip – well. Those were all different things, in the end.

“What’s she like? Your sister.” Tony looks at Helena. “You mention her often enough.”

Helena chews her lip and brings her knees up to her chest. She rips handfuls of grass out of the ground and begins to shred them, tearing the green blades apart with her nails. “We were together. Once. Not anymore.” She says it softly, plainly, like a story she already knows the ending to.

“That’s okay. Sometimes folks don’t stay in your life. That’s okay, Helena.”

Helena says nothing, falling backwards with a thump. She stretches her arms up to the sky and at the twitch of her fingers the stars brighten. She beckons them forth, tracing the lines between them with one finger.

“That one’s Gemini,” Tony says, laying back. He points up, beckoning another constellation forward. “And that one’s Taurus. Don’t know what they were thinking though, that shit looks  _nothing_ like a bull.”

Helena laughs, a horse sound like the cracking of lost ships against glaciers. Tony can’t help but join her, their laughs mingling together as the stars fade back to their normal glow, blending back into the galaxy swirling overhead.  

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked, a kudo or comment would make my day! :D


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